According to Merriam-Webster, an odyssey is, “a long wandering or voyage usually marked by many changes of fortune.” Our journey into adoption is still in its’ very early stages and already it feels like an odyssey. I wonder sometimes how I got here. How did it come to this?
I was told at the age of 17, after an appendectomy that turned into the removal of a portion of my right ovary, that I might be prone to ovarian cysts throughout my life and it would probably be difficult to conceive children. At that time, that news didn’t seem particularly devastating. What did I know about the biological clock that would someday tick so loudly it would keep me awake at night? How could I have understood that the time would come when I would ache deep inside my soul for a child of my own?
With the optimism of youth, I assumed that things would come together at the right time and I would certainly be able to have children. My doctor was an alarmist. They were just trying to prepare me for the worst. That was so far in the future, how could I worry about it?
Even into my early 30’s, I was at peace with the fact that I might not ever have a child. I said over and over again that I would accept God’s will and take the hand that was dealt to me. Somehow, that all went to hell when it came time to actually try to get pregnant. I blindly went into it thinking that I would be the one to defy the odds. Surely the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny a baby to someone who wanted one so much. As each month passed, I came to despise that first spot of blood I would see. I cried as I took the box of tampons out of the cabinet under the sink every 28 days. I was a good person, why was this happening to me? Why was I such a failure that I couldn’t do what millions of women all over the world were doing every day? People even do it by accident, how could I fail when I had actual intent?
And now I am 41. My time for pregnancy has come and gone. The statistics about the difficulties I would face if I were to become pregnant are alarming. My health, and that of my much yearned for child, would be at risk. Would I even want to carry a child if I could by some miracle conceive? I was told by a physician just over a year ago that with my medical condition, it would be irresponsible of me to try to conceive, carry, and deliver a baby. Where is the compassion in that statement? Where is the understanding for the pain I go through every time I see a baby? Every time I see a family, knowing that I am missing out on one of the great human experiences, being able to love and raise a child?
My husband and I discussed our options. We talked to friends and counselors and doctors. Artificial insemination? Not an option if I was not ovulating. In vitro fertilization? Difficult, expensive, and the odds are not great, especially for someone of my age. Surrogacy? My mind spins with the stories of Baby M and the fear of a birth mother not being able to give up the baby. And the idea of my genetic material going into another uterus seems like a science fiction tale, somehow unnatural.
So…..adoption it is.
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